Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02]

by The Crystal Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  “Destroy,” she hissed.

  The courtiers looked at one another. Who? The accursed girl? If they could have accomplished that, the Queen would not be dying. But the elf stone, their own beryl, protected her, and now it was wedded to the dreadful sword it had come from and was even more potent. It could only be taken from her by love, and that was an emotion they were uneasy about. Love, after all, had taken the beryl away from them in the first place.

  “Speak, Elpha!” Margold’s voice seemed clamorous in the stillness, powerful and almost ugly. They glared at her.

  “Destroy the Rock Folk!” It was a shrill command, and her last, for as soon as she spoke, her flesh withered and her silvery hair fell away from her skull. Her song ended and her body shriveled under the delicate pleatings of her gown. All her beauty faded, and a horrible mummy with puckered lips over great teeth, a dried husk, sat upon the throne.

  The White Folk moaned and averted their eyes, though they kept glancing back at the monstrous vision until one of the web weavers cast a blue and silver pall across the corpse. A dreadful smell of putrefaction filled the chamber, and they gagged and retched.

  Margold stepped forward, for she was the logical heir after the passing of her sister Angold, and started to speak. To her surprise, another spell singer, Eldrida, came forward as well. Eldrida was young in the craft, and had only recently joined in the Great Song, replacing Angold. She was usually full of laughter and gaiety. Now she was solemn. The rubies of her singings clustered around her throat and encircled her wrists and her slender waist like great, glistening drops of blood against the grey of her gown. A circlet of ruby rested on her black hair and pale brow, and Margold wondered when she had sung that. None but the King or Queen might wear such an ornament.

  It was a challenge, and an outrageous one, for Eldrida was no match for her. Margold decided to ignore it. The silly child was giving herself airs. “Remove the Queen’s remains, web weavers, that I may take my rightful place. We shall celebrate Elpha’s passing by fulfilling her last desire. We will rid ourselves of these wretched salamanders once and for all.” Her voice trembled with strain.

  Eldrida laughed faintly. “Your rightful place, Amethyst Singer? How . . . droll.”

  “What! My amethysts are the—”

  “Are baubles compared to my rubies.”

  “You upstart wretch! How dare you challenge me!”

  “I have heard cave toads with better voices.” Eldrida’s words were a minor spell, but an effective one. Margold felt her throat thicken with anger and the horrible smell of the dead Queen.

  “Get Elpha off the throne, and purify it!” The words croaked out between her lips and she knew she sounded old. How horrible. She took a deep breath to regain her composure and nearly gagged on the scent of death.

  “By all means, remove the accursed corpse of our unlamented Queen,” Eldrida said, apparently unhampered by the stench. The web weavers moved like crones, already exhausted by their efforts to sustain Elpha, and one of them moaned, then swooned onto the smooth floor of the cavern. “Or does any of you have a kind remembrance of the Lady of Folly?”

  Those present looked at each other in some confusion. The courtiers looked from Margold to Eldrida and back again, full of hesitation.

  “Chamberlain!” Margold almost roared the word.

  Tallis, the Queen’s chamberlain, was ancient even amongst the White Folk, and his mind wandered. He stepped forward from where he stood near the shattered stone harp in the wall, and clutched at the embroidered front bands of his blue robe. His baldric chimed discordantly at his movement.

  “Yes?” His pale eyes seemed witless as he looked at Margold.

  “Proclaim me Queen.”

  Tallis seemed to ponder this demand while one of the courtiers appeared with a troop of dwarf servants to help remove the corpse. The dwarves crept nervously towards the throne, their grotesque heads twisting around to view the court. They bound the pall around Elpha’s remains and lugged her awkwardly off the throne like a bundle of soiled garments. They curled their ugly noses and big mouths at the smell and muttered dwarfish complaints as they staggered away with their burden.

  Tallis looked at Eldrida, then back at Margold. “Amethysts are not rubies,” he began slowly, “and we have always—”

  “I am the senior spell singer. I will be Queen,” Margold interrupted him.

  “There are precedents,” quavered Tallis. “Precious gems are greater than age.”

  Eldrida smirked, and Margold fell into a rage. She jerked a little knife from her belt and flew at the younger singer. Eldrida lifted her left hand, and toned a single note. A shield of ruby, a roundel as large as a platter, covered her hand, and she brought it up in a graceful motion. Margold’s knife shattered harmlessly upon its shining surface.

  With a shriek she put her hands around the slender, ruby-hung throat of her adversary, and screamed in pain when her hands touched the stones. Margold tore herself away and backed as far as she could in the press of courtiers.

  “What have you done?” Margold cried, holding her hands out. They were covered with bright sores.

  Eldrida smiled serenely and stroked the jewels around her neck, like a cream-sated cat. She chuckled and the sound made the court shiver, their bells giving little shrill notes. “A little blood, a little song,” she murmured.

  “You abomination!” Margold shuddered, and the court shuddered with her.

  “Blood!”

  “She used blood!”

  “But only the King’s men can do that.”

  The whispers hissed around the chamber like a nest of vipers. The Queen’s singers prided themselves on the purity of their craft, and held the King’s artificers in some contempt for their use of substances like blood and bile in their work.

  “What blood did you use?” asked Thela, web weaver, in a toneless voice.

  “Why, Angold’s, of course. It was such a lovely red.”

  The court paused and pondered this. Spell singing was “in the blood,” so they said, and this meant that Eldrida possessed not only her own power, but that of the Opal Singer, Angold, as well. She must be mad to do such a Ihing.

  Thela pressed her brow with white fingers. “And how did you achieve the knowledge to accomplish this deed?”

  Eldrida gave her a look of hatred. It distorted the lovely face into something terrible. Then she smiled again. “The King’s men do like their wine, and a bit of company,” she replied.

  “Which weakling did you seduce?” The web weaver seemed determined to know the worst.

  “There were several. Now, ancient Tallis, proclaim me Queen so we can get on with our salamander hunt.” She rubbed her hands together. “I have some interesting ideas 1 would like to try.”

  A dozen courtiers, men and women, turned as one and left the throne chamber. Thela continued her interrogation. “What ideas?”

  “I shall make a new sun for the Crystal City—a ruby greater than any ever seen. Bring me Rock Folk blood by the tun, and I shall sing a spell of such magnificence.” She paused, awed by her vision. “A bloody sun,” she mused.

  Margold was sickened. She turned blindly and stumbled into one of the courtiers. A firm hand clasped her elbow.

  “Come, spell singer. Let us leave this monstrosity.” It was Hamar, her friend, and she sagged against his chest and let him lead her away.

  As he rode, Dylan was aware that the forest he was passing through was a little strange. While it did not resemble the fern tree place pictured on the walls of Pers Morel’s house, being full of ordinary poplar, birch, oak, and maple, still it was different at the same time. Mistletoe grew in ball-like festoons along the tops of many trees, but that was not what bothered him. Finally he realized that the forest was utterly silent. No bird sang in the trees, and except for the single hare and the licome, he had seen no animals. The stillness was oppressive.

  Finally they left the trees and came to a swift, broad river. Reeds and mallow crowded the banks, a
nd the water smelled clean, unlike the Seine. But no midges swarmed the banks, and no fish sported in the clear waters.

  The licome breasted the flow, careless of Dylan’s new boots, and he cursed the lack of stirrups. He was wet to the knees before he could prevent it, though the water was pleasantly warm; he clung more tightly to his steed. It swam strongly against the current, snorting and grunting with effort.

  The far bank was bare of vegetation. Limey tumbles of rock leperous with lichen were everywhere, leading to low cliffs of the same creamy yellow mineral. The licome picked its way delicately across the rough terrain, its hooves sending rocks skittering away. The noise of its movements seemed very loud in the stillness, and Dylan craned his head around, seeking unseen adversaries.

  The cliffs grew higher as he moved upstream until they shadowed the nameless river. Dylan was chilled by the shade and his wet feet, and he was starting to feel hungry, but the licome showed no inclination to pause. The pale sun was westering, casting golden glints on the water and offering little warmth. Dylan shivered and felt out of his element. He could still see the forest on the other bank, and he looked at it with longing.

  The licome stopped before a narrow slit in the cliffs, a dark slot in the creamy limestone. Dylan slid off his steed gratefully and stretched his cramped legs. The beast snorted and stamped and nosed him in the middle of the back.

  “What is the hurry, old fellow,” Dylan complained. “The lady has waited for years. What is a few more minutes?”

  The licome gave a sort of squeal, and Dylan realized he was enormously reluctant to enter the cliffs. It reminded him too much of his recent sojourn in the dungeon. “What a paltry fellow I am, indeed,” he told the animal, “to be afeared of the dark.” He hung a long arm around the licome’s neck, savoring the warmth and the smell of it. The silence, except for the faint gurgle of the river and the sound of his own breathing and that of the beast, was disturbing. The sun slid below the horizon and the world turned to grey and creamy white.

  Dylan got some bread and cheese out of his pack and munched them thoughtfully as the twilight faded into night.

  He pulled off his boots and changed his wet hose for dry ones and chuckled, remembering his mother’s complaint about how wet her own adventure had been. Of course, she would always add, if it had been in a desert, I would remember how thirsty and dry it was. Will I tell my children about damp hose and the way a licorne’s spine cut into my groin? he wondered. He felt an odd comfort in contemplating his unborn offspring. A boy or two, he decided, and a girl, would be nice. He tried to picture them, and only managed to conjure up vague memories of his younger sisters.

  Dylan put his boots back on, wrapped his cloak around him, so it stuck out oddly over the pack, patted the licome once more, and went to the crack in the cliff. It was narrower than it looked, and he had to remove the pack from his back and thrust it through ahead of him. Even so, he barely scraped past the rocks sidewise.

  His aura limned the tiny cavern with faint light. A damp, fungal smell rose to greet his nose, and he moved forward carefully, longing for a candle or a torch. A light seemed to flow out of his pouch, and Dylan paused. He reached in and removed one of Beth’s leaves. It glowed with a greenish light, and he held it in his left hand.

  A narrow passage opened at the back of the cavern, and Dylan bent his head to enter it. After about a hundred steps, the ceiling lifted and he could stand upright again, but his pack was an awkward encumbrance, as was his cloak. Finally he removed both, ignoring the chill of the caves, stuffed the cloak into the bag, and carried it in his right hand.

  It was silent in the caverns, except for the occasional drip of water, and a rustling noise in the rocks. Dylan heard that several times, and turned to see what caused it. Blank rock stared back at him, though once he thought he saw a pair of reddish eyes. They were gone so quickly he decided it must have been a reflection.

  Dylan could tell he was descending into the earth, and the sense of mountains of rock above him disturbed him. His footfalls sounded like drumbeats in the stillness, and he was tempted to sing or whistle. He remembered one of his mother’s tales about a deserted dwarf realm called Khazad-dum and decided not to. There were, he recalled, several extremely nasty monsters in that place, and he had no desire to attract the attention of any such. Those red eyes looking at him from the rock might not have been a trick of light.

  He thought he heard a shout, and stopped dead in his tracks. Yes, it was definitely a yell of some sort, and another answered. It seemed to echo from somewhere down the corridor. There was a rustling noise in the rock, and a reptilian head poked out a few feet in front of him. It looked up and down the passage, stared at him for a second, then vanished back into the stone. Dylan had the fleeting impression of ruby eyes and a soft snout, a sensitive tongue that flicked the air, and nothing more.

  The shouts faded, as if the speakers had turned in another direction, and Dylan began to move on again. The passage widened, so he slung his pack up on his shoulder again, and relaxed a little. He turned a comer and halted.

  A statue crouched on the rocky floor, a huge figure of red glass with a green heart. It resembled a dragon, except for the lack of wings and scales, and he could see spear heads and broken shafts embedded in the figure. Around the statue he could see evidence of a fight, for there were smashed bits of rainbow glass and smears of dried rusty stuff he suspected was blood all over the floor. Bits of tom cloth were scattered here and there, and he found a single crystal bell against the wall. He picked it up carefully, for it seemed a fragile thing, and it gave a faint tinkle.

  A song seemed to fill the air, a dreadful lament, a terrible uneasy music that made his skin stand up in goose-flesh. The words were almost intelligible, but the sadness of them needed no translation. He put the bell down on a tiny ledge and edged around the statue. The song faded, and he hastened down the passage.

  It was silent again for a short while, and then Dylan heard more calls. They were coming towards him, and he could see no obvious place to hide his huge body, so he waited, hand on sword haft. Faint footfalls whispered towards him, the rustle of cloth, and the ring of tiny bells.

  Six men appeared out of the darkness. They had dark hair and pale eyes, and they all carried spears. Their long faces were sheened with exertion, and their eyes had a look Dylan had seen too often in recent weeks—the hunted look of the hunter. After a moment he realized they had a resemblance to Pers Morel, though they were obviously the originals and Morel but a copy.

  They skittered to a halt and examined him with some intensity. They were dressed all alike in brief tunics of finely pleated cloth, heavy with embroidery upon the hems and sleeve edges, and each bore a baldric of bells across his narrow chest. Their feet were sandal shod, not booted, which struck him as quite impractical for running about in caves. One, he noticed, had run afoul of a rock and bashed his great toe rather badly. They grasped the shafts of their spears restlessly, but gave no indication that they were about to attack.

  “How dare thee enter our domain!” one finally demanded. They spoke a strange tongue, neither Franconian nor Albionese nor Latin, and the demand was a trill of liquid noises for a moment. The leaf he still held fluttered against his palm, leechlike, and he understood, though it seemed a subtle language, unsuited to his unmusical throat. “The door was open,” Dylan replied.

  That seemed to confuse them, and they conferred in hasty whispers.

  “The door cannot be open!”

  “Let us take him to the Queen.”

  “Which one?”

  “Eldrida, of course.”

  “No, Margold ...”

  “Let us kill him here. It is simpler.” That was the one with the bloody toe. Dylan grinned right at him, and he gave a shudder which set his bells jangling.

  “True. He is an intruder. He cannot have gotten in. Only the half-elven . . . only they know the way.”

  “Are we betrayed then?” This idea seemed to exercise a powerful effec
t on them. They looked at one another anxiously and cast hard glances at Dylan, as if they might discern his nature if they studied him properly.

  “What does he bear in his hand?”

  “Who is he? He is no ordinary mortal. Gaze upon his lumen.”

  “I have. It nearly blinded me. He is a beast. All covered with horrid hair. Kill him, I say!” With this, Bloody Toe turned and flung his spear. Dylan drew his sword and deflected the shaft with a glassy clatter. It fell to shards beside him and gave a faint shriek as it disintegrated, as if it had been alive.

  “You idiot!” snarled one fellow and slapped Bloody Toe across the face. “He bears iron!” He paused a second. “Go! Rouse the King’s men. We are no match for this black-avised animal

  “You go, if you are so eager. Alphonze mourns the Queen, and he is in a foul temper. Besides, he fears a revolt. Already he has slain two of his rivals.”

  “What! When?”

  “I heard it just before we started this accursed salamander hunt.” Bloody Toe looked smug and uneasy at the same time. “The Queen is mad, and the King is mad, and now we find a beast-man wandering in our galleries as if he owned them. I tell you, we should never have let that girl be brought here. Angold named her well. Aenor Alfsdun. We will never get our stone back, and her song increases with each moment.” He seemed quite pleased with his gloomy recital.

  “Close your mouth, Nicor.”

  “I only speak what we all know is true.”

  “Yes, and if Eldrida hears of it, you will be bled for a ruby, you fool.”

  Nicor shivered at this idea and looked depressed, while Dylan tried to make some sense out of the information he was picking up. The girl they spoke of must be the dream woman he had been pursuing, and he felt a quiver of apprehension. What if she found him unpleasing? The goddess had made him no promise, he realized with a start.

  Prompted by some unknown deviltry, he said, “I have come for Aenor.” It was, he decided, nice to know her name after all this time.